


Cookies Don't Matter

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, Dean has feels, First Time, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches. Witches fucking with his life again. Even if they weren’t, technically, <i>witching</i> to do it.<br/>Nope, now they’re fucking with his friends -- his angel -- no, that sounds weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cookies Don't Matter

Dean doesn’t blame the woman for tying their wrists but he does blame her for tying knots he can’t undo. What the hell kind of witch ties _knots_ like this? Did she get some kind of special knot training? Is there a witch camp for tying knots? 

The kitchen twine is an unfair touch -- too damn bristly for one thing and too fucking _strong_ for him to muscle out of. Castiel isn’t even _trying,_ just sitting patiently in his chair like the woman’s invited them over for tea.

Dean can’t argue with much else she’s done, though. All she _has_ done is haul them out of her basement, up the stairs, and plop them in a couple of kitchen chairs like they were there for a coffee hour. The wrist-tying had been almost an afterthought. 

An afterthought she’d done a really _thorough_ job on.

And she _is_ actually making tea.

He’d expected more threatening. Maybe a little blood-letting. She hadn’t even sworn at them after the first surprised exclamation. She’s just tied them in their chairs and is now making...tea. 

In a perfectly nice, large kitchen with yellow trim on the open wooden shelves and around the wide windows above the sink. There’s an aloe plant with a few stubby limbs on the windowsill, a wrung-out yellow sponge drying by the faucet, a closed cookbook on the counter by the oven. The floor is gleaming like she’s just been cleaning it and -- well, Dean has seen his fair share of witches and there’s normally some kind of tell. Even the best of them can’t resist a pentacle necklace or dyed red hair or a tattoo or some kind of wackjob thing with feathers and a leather thong in the window.

But there’s nothing here. There’s a stained glass hummingbird in the window of the door that leads out into the garden, paper towels and a blender on top of the fridge, a couple of coffee mugs next to the sink -- and that’s it.

She’s not wearing any jewelry except for silver studs in her ears and she’s the most aggressively _normal_ -looking person he’s seen in weeks: short black hair, jeans with smears of flour on the thighs, oversized fleece over a grey men’s t-shirt. No tattoos, scarifications, shaved eyebrows, purple lipstick -- nothin’. Not even flashy eyeshadow or a big necklace.

‘So, honestly,’ she says finally, turning around with a steaming mug in her hands. ‘I didn’t think it’d be you.’

‘Excuse me?’ Dean says while Castiel simply cocks his head and looks faintly confused.

‘Well --’ She gestures to the two of them and leans forward on the kitchen island, putting the cup down with a faint clink on the tiles. ‘I mean. I didn’t expect I’d get the _Winchesters.’_

Dean glances at Castiel but his face is blank -- not his _I’m being cryptic now_ expression but just regular ordinary _I don’t get it_ blank -- and Dean looks back at the woman again: ‘What?’

She waves a hand in the air and takes a sip of tea. ‘Ooh, too hot.’ She grimaces at the cup and puts it down again. ‘Well, seriously -- the girls warned me but getting _you_ guys -- ‘ She shakes her head. ‘I mean...it’s...like a weird sort of honor.’

‘The...the _girls?’_ Dean can feel control of this situation shifting very quickly from him to her. In fact, he’s fairly sure he’s already lost it entirely.

She shrugs. ‘Well, I’ve got pretty good natural talent but you don’t think I worked this all up on my own, do you?’ She waves at the kitchen around them and Dean has no idea what the hell she’s talking about. The paper towels? Maybe the aloe plant’s really some kind of extra-dimensional portal? He’s betting not but he’s seen weirder.

‘Sorry, little distracted by the--’ He makes an awkward wiggling motion with his shoulders to indicate his bound wrists and she makes a sympathetic face at him and takes another sip of tea.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that but -- I’ve heard about some of the things you guys’ve done.’ Her mouth tightens. ‘I don’t want to end up a statistic on the list of how many witches you killed in 2011.’

‘They do not keep records like that,’ Castiel volunteers and Dean would like very much to kick him in the knee. The best he can do is to knee him in the thigh, though, and Castiel simply blinks at him. ‘You do not.’

The woman glances at Castiel and frowns again, just slightly. ‘Look, no offense but -- weren’t you taller?’

Castiel blinks again. ‘I...have been taller in the past, yes.’

‘One of the girls showed me a photo and I thought...’ She stands up and waves a hand over her head vaguely. ‘I thought you were taller.’ She shrugs. ‘Must’ve been a bad photo.’

‘There are no photos of my--’

‘So who are these girls?’ Dean cuts Castiel off before he can say something about ‘prior vessels’ or ‘trips from Heaven’ and get them in real trouble.

She looks at him for a minute, then shakes her head. ‘No. If you don’t know, I’m not tellin’ you. Look, what do you _want_ with us anyway? We’re not hurting anyone!’

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to will some feeling back into his thumbs. There’s a thread of something tickling his right wrist; if he’s very, very lucky, it’s the twine unravelling. If the woman honestly doesn’t _know_ what she’s up to, then maybe this evening might end well after all.

‘It might seem like that but... Look, no matter how you do it or what good things you think you’re doin’, I’ve never seen witchcraft end up somewhere good!’ 

_Blood,_ he wants to tell her, _blood and screaming and you really really never want to meet an eighteen-year-old girl who’s just handed her baby sister over to a netherworld demon in exchange for a date to the prom._

To his surprise, she’s nodding. ‘Yeah, okay, but -- seriously, you came all this way to bust us for cookies?’

Dean feels his brain stammer and glances at Castiel. He is looking down at his knees, but Dean can see the quick sideways flash of blue eyes. He looks back up at the woman. ‘Cookies?’

‘Yeah--’ She turns to a tall rack at the end of the island. Top to bottom, packed on deep shelves, are cellophane bags of cookies. Each one is tied neatly with a card and a ribbon bow and each shelf is a different color ribbon and cookie. ‘How are we gonna get anyone in trouble with these?’ She waves at the crammed shelves. ‘It’s the equivalent of giving newlyweds chocolate and champagne!’

‘I...look, what’s your name?’

She gives him a strange look and Dean guesses that she thought he already knew it. ‘Kristy.’

‘Kristy. Nice name.’ He gives her a smile he hopes comes out reassuring and calm, not maniacal and off his game -- which is how he feels. ‘So -- cookies?’

‘Yeah.’ She pulls out a bag from the top shelf and drops it in front of him. He has to steel himself not to flinch back but -- they’re just a bag of cookies. ‘Cookies. That’s all. It’s just...a little home bakery business.’

‘With...magic.’ Dean leans forward and looks at the cookies, taking the opportunity to try and stretch the twine around his wrists, then up at Kristy.

She grimaces, then nods. ‘Yeah. Just a little.’

‘To do ...what?’ When he leans back, the loops feel a little looser.

She frowns at him. ‘Do...what? They’re cookies.’ She shakes the bag at him.

‘Yeah, okay, but cookies that do what? Sing? Dance? Make you see God?’

She grins at him, then figures out he’s not joking, and sobers quickly. ‘No -- no, none of that. They’re _good_ sugar cookies is all. Maybe...’ She scowls a little and twists an end of green ribbon around the tip of one finger. ‘Maybe they’re just meant to make people a little...happy.’

‘Happy? So -- hallucinating? Drunk? Visions? That kind of happy?’ Dean hazards.

She stares at him. ‘God, no. Happy like --’ She wiggles a hand in the air and he can see a blush creeping over her cheeks. ‘Happy like... Happy. Relaxed. Y’know...in the mood.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘God, do I have to tell you what a party’s for?’

‘What?’

‘They’re for _bachelor_ parties, okay?’ She rips the bag open and the cookies scatter over the counter. ‘Look, see?’ She holds one up and Dean can see that, with a little imagination and maybe one eye closed, you could see it being breast-shaped. ‘We just put a little...extra flavor in.’ She shrugs and drops the cookie on the torn bag. ‘It’s not just for guys -- we sell ‘em to showers and birthday parties and all sorts of things -- they’re just a little fun.’ She waves at the shelves again. ‘And they’re not all...er...y’know... sexy. Some of ‘em are just...’ She shrugs again. ‘Cookies.’

 _‘Fun--’_ Dean is about to get rolling when Castiel clears his throat and catches his eye.

‘Dean. There is nothing harmful in them.’

‘Oh, and how the hell can you tell that?’

Castiel shrugs and says nothing.

‘No, seriously, he’s right,’ Kristy says, nodding and, try as he might, Dean just can’t see the lie in her face. ‘There’s nothing in them to _make_ you feel something you don’t -- if you don’t want to or the right person isn’t there, you can eat the whole shelf if you want and nothing’d happen.’ She starts raking together the scattered cookies and adds, ‘Well, I mean you’d probably get sick. They’re a rich cookie.’

Dean must still look as unconvinced as he feels because she looks at him and sighs, flattening her hands on the countertop. ‘I don’t want to call the cops on you. Really, I don’t -- you and your brother--’ And the question about height is suddenly answered. ‘--I can guess what you deal with and I want you out there dealin’ with it so I don’t have to.’ She meets his eyes squarely for the first time and goes on, ‘But I will. So what’re we gonna do here?’

‘Let me try one.’

‘Y’ _what?’_ Dean splutters, distracted with what he thought was a promising weakness in the cord around his wrists and that may be the cuff of his own shirt he’s just unravelled. Shit.

Castiel shrugs. ‘Let me try one. If nothing happens, then we know the confections are harmless.’

‘And if you turn into a fuckin’ _frog?’_

Kristy rolls her eyes and holds a cookie up for Castiel to take a bite. ‘He won’t turn into a frog.’

Before Dean can do anything, Castiel takes a nibble of the cookie, then a full bite and chews thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling.

 _Dear Jesus God..._ Dean starts planning feverishly. He’s pretty sure he can get one hand free if he just yanks hard enough; he’s been pulling fibers off the twine and it’ll probably cost him a bad cut but whatever. He can knock Kristy cold on the counter -- easy, ‘cause she won’t be lookin’ for it -- grab the bag and get Castiel back to Sam so Sam can look for some kind of fucking _antidote_ to whatever the hell Cas has just--

‘It is quite flavorful.’ Castiel swallows and adds, ‘I congratulate you.’

‘Thanks.’ Kristy offers the rest of the cookie to Dean, one eyebrow arched high. ‘You want to try?’

  


‘Well, _that_ was fun,’ Dean says bitterly as Kristy closes the door behind them. He’s sure the last thing he can hear is her laughing. ‘Seriously, Cas, what the hell was that? This was _your_ call -- did you just get the munchies or something?’ Not to mention the fact that Dean was starting to wonder if Cas thought he was blind _and_ stupid not to see him finish the first cookie and pocket the rest of the ripped open bag. If nothing else, he can _hear_ the plastic crinkling in Castiel’s pocket.

It had been raining earlier in the evening and the pavement is damp. The world smells like wet asphalt and cold and Dean shrugs deeper into his jacket. The Impala is a block or so away, parked in the lot of a closed bank, and they turn down the sidewalk in that direction. There are streetlamps at each end of the street and trees planted every few yards in between. 

Castiel shrugs. ‘I was...curious. And there could have been a threat. My information could have been wrong.’

‘Yeah, she could’ve been making evil whoopie pies,’ Dean grumbles and grabs Castiel’s elbow to steer him clear of the fire hydrant he’s about to try and walk through. He’s being more vague than usual tonight and he’s missed a couple of trees more by luck than anything else. Dean doesn’t really feel like spending the rest of the night making up ice packs.

Castiel gasps and stops dead in his tracks, the muscles of his arm tensing under Dean’s hand. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t take the next step, doesn’t even seem to be breathing, and Dean is suddenly seeing a cascade of ways of exactly how shit the rest of this night could be.

‘Cas? Cas, c’mon, talk to me --’ Dean pulls him around so he can see his face.

Castiel’s eyes are closed and he’s biting his lower lip hard. Dean’s pretty sure he can hear Cas muttering words he didn’t think Cas knew.

‘Those _fucking_ cookies, I fucking _knew_ it---’ Dean drops Castiel’s arm and turns to go back to the house, intending to read Kristy the riot act first and burn her house to the ground second -- if he’s still feeling generous by the time he gets there.

‘No, no--’ Castiel catches his hand and gasps again as their palms touch. He had plainly been going to say something else but he’s gone silent again, staring at their hands as though there’s something weird going on between their fingers. Dean looks down, too, involuntarily but there’s no purple smoke or sparks, just their fingers awkwardly twisted together.

‘No what, Cas?’

‘It is not...her fault. She has done nothing wrong.’ Castiel musters up something that Dean thinks is supposed to be a reassuring smile but is too frayed at the edges to be honestly reassuring. ‘She makes excellent cookies.’

‘What? What the--oh. _Oh.’_ Dean tries to make his grip on Castiel’s hand reassuring, like he knows what to do with a sex-addled angel, no problem at all, just a matter of checking the rule book. But Castiel just chokes in breath again and closes his eyes. 

‘Jesus, Cas, you had to pick _here_ \-- I don’t know this place from a hole in the ground--’ Dean looks around with growing desperation. He really doesn’t know this town -- he and Sam have never passed through before and if he came through with John, he must’ve been too young to remember it.

That had been part of the reason for his surprise when Castiel announced there were witches there -- it was in the middle of a huge blank spot on the Winchester maps. Which, he supposes now thinking about it, should’ve made it more likely that something was going to pop up there but -- seriously, this isn’t fair.

‘Where the fuck am I supposed to take you?’ Dean mutters, more to himself than anything else, trying to remember _anything_ he’d seen on the drive into town that had had the faintest smell of a red-light-district.

‘Take me...where?’ Castiel takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Dean coughs, feeling himself blush and glad they’re not standing under the streetlight a few yards down. ‘Well, we gotta...get you seen to. I guess. Can’t just...leave you hanging around like this.’ He gestures with his free hand at Castiel who is starting to hunch over slightly, then stares up at the sky as if he can somehow will Castiel’s embarrassment away by not looking at it. 

‘No. Just...let me to go back to the motel. I can...wait there.’

‘Jesus, are you kidding? You’re gonna sign up for a case of blue balls?’

‘What?’ Castiel stares at Dean.

‘I -- just -- Look, I’m sure there’s...somewhere around here where we can -- find you a girl and--’

‘No.’ With a little difficulty but a determination Dean has to admire, Castiel pulls his hand free of Dean’s and straightens up, pulling the loose trenchcoat around himself and burying his hands in the pockets.

‘What the hell else’re you gonna do?’

‘It will pass.’

‘It will--’ Dean stops, takes a breath. ‘Okay, yeah, it will, but -- look -- y’don’t...we can figure out some way for -- I mean -- you don’t have to _suffer_ through it! If it’s supposed to be fun --’ He resists the urge to thump Castiel on the shoulder. ‘Lets find a way for you to have some fun.’

Castiel regards him stoically for a minute then says, ‘Like that girl. In Maine.’

Dean nods. ‘Yeah, like her.’ Okay, so she hadn’t been the _best_ first choice but he’s sure he could do better now. He’s got a way better idea of what Cas might like and--

‘No.’

‘Cas--’

‘No, Dean. I agreed to that once and -- and it was wrong of me. No.’

 _‘Wrong_ of-- look, never mind. Forget it -- whatever ethical...whatevers you got going on, forget ‘em.’ Dean catches Castiel’s elbow again and tries to steer him down the street, but Castiel pulls free, ducking his head so Dean can’t see his face and Dean talks on for a minute on automatic: ‘There’s gotta be some place with women in this town who _aren’t_ witches or hookers and you’re pretty hot so we’ll get you fixed up in--’ 

Castiel’s quiet cursing brings him to a stop and finally kicks his brain into gear: why Cas won’t look at him, why every time Dean touches him it seems to get worse---

Dean’s an idiot.

He’s been told it before but he’s never had it brought home to him quite like _this._

‘Christ. Cas.’ He drops Castiel’s elbow and tries to duck so he can see his face. _‘Me?’_ Finding a girl would be hard enough but a _guy?_ ‘Jesus, Cas...’

‘I am sorry.’ Castiel pulls his arm free, taking an audible deep breath. ‘I did not... This was not my plan. I did not think...’ He glances up at Dean and then back down at the pavement, hunching into himself even more. ‘I did not think they would work.’

‘You -- didn’t --’ Dean echoes back Castiel’s words and scrambles to make sense out of them. 

There’s really only one way to _make_ them make sense but -- that way _doesn’t_ make sense because Cas -- _isn’t,_ never _said_ he was and -- do angels even....? -- and Dean’s -- not, not really, and -- they don’t, never have -- so -- but -- 

‘Cas--’ and Dean has his second moment of realization of the night which he thinks later must be some kind of personal record. He should get a plaque or something. Maybe a gold star: **On This Spot in 2011, Dean Winchester Noticed Something.**

Instead of doing anything intelligent with it, though, he just gapes at Castiel. _‘Me?_ Like -- _me_ me? I mean -- not just -- that I’m -- but --’

Castiel is huddling into himself more and more by the time Dean gets enough of a grip on himself to stop talking. Problem is, once he stops, he has no idea how to start again and he just stands where he is: staring at Castiel while Castiel stares at the ground.

It isn’t like he hasn’t had guys hit on him before -- he knows how to deal with that. But this -- this isn’t that. This is -- this is-- ‘Look, Cas, I never--’ _Thought about this. Never thought about anything like this. Never thought about you like that._ But that’s not strictly true and Dean’s not that good at lying to himself right now.

Because there was the time Castiel got caught in a flash thunderstorm when they were in the middle of Kansas somewhere and came into the motel like he’d just discovered gold pouring from the sky: so delighted with the experience of being soaked to the skin and half-deafened by thunder that Dean couldn’t help grinning back at him.

And the first time Dean -- accidentally -- got Cas a little tipsy on dollar pitchers and Castiel hadn’t really been able to walk straight without Dean’s hand on the small of his back.

 _But I never--_ Except maybe a couple dreams he told himself he didn’t really remember -- not for lack of trying -- and that one time his attention wandered while he was jerking off and instead of the cute nurse from the ER the night before he found himself thinking of the texture of Castiel’s rough, dark hair.

‘I am _sorry,’_ Castiel repeats, pulling himself up with a visible effort and meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time. ‘I...did not understand.’

Dean would swear the words have an echo to them but shit like that doesn’t happen in the real world. On the other hand, he’s had very few angels declare they’ve got the hots for him by eating magic cookies so who the hell is he to judge? 

_‘Me?_ Like...like me me.' 

He wants to laugh; he’s pretty sure he’s grinning like an idiot and he doesn’t know if he’s actually happy or just so fucking confused that smiling is the only reflex he can find ‘cause it’s easy. ‘I mean -- I --’

Castiel is looking more miserable by the second and Dean forces himself to shut the fuck up, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting in hopes his brain might do him a favor and snap into gear. It doesn’t.

Next step.

He needs a next step.

What the _fuck_ is the next step?

Castiel shakes his head and takes a small step backwards towards the street. ‘I am sorry, Dean. I will -- find you and Sam tomorrow or -- or when it goes away and--’

‘What? No! Hey, you can’t just flap off and--’ Dean puts a hand on his arm before he thinks about it. Castiel almost hisses, as if the touch is painful and Dean yanks his hand back. ‘Look, fuck, I’m _sorry_ but I don’t want you to go off and just--’

Well.

That’s a next step, isn’t it?

‘Look, if you...if that’s why you did this then... then I can fix it, right?’

Castiel’s eyes are wide, disbelieving, and he stares at Dean. ‘You...’

‘Right.’ Dean nods firmly, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and squaring his shoulders. If he looks like he knows what he’s doing, maybe that means he does. ‘I mean -- right? That’s...what’d undo this whole...thing? Or...let it run its course or...whatever?’ 

‘I...I...’ Castiel stammers, audibly _stammers,_ and falls silent and Dean feels strangely pleased with himself. He’s never managed to shut Castiel up through the sheer brilliance of his ideas before.

‘If they’re meant to be party favors, then...then they’d have to wear off pretty quick.’ He waves a hand at the quiet streets around them. ‘Or we’d’ve heard about this town a _lot_ sooner ‘cause it’d be orgy central.’ 

Castiel says nothing, mouth slightly open, staring at Dean as if he’d stood on his head.

‘Look, it’s not...not that big a deal.’ Dean clears his throat, jams his hands back in his pockets and tries to look like he does this sort of thing all the time. Sex spells in baked goods? Every fucking day, my friend, no problem. 

‘We’ll just...just go back to the motel room and...figure out how to...uh...what we do next.’

  


‘Hey, Sammy -- go catch a movie.’ Dean flicks a folded twenty onto his brother’s chest and Sam looks up in surprise, dropping the paperback he had been reading on the bed.

‘Hey, how’d it go?’ 

‘Fine, great, awesome, get out, will you?’ Dean stands by the door, glancing back out at the Impala where Castiel’s a pale spot in the front seat, hunched over himself and trying like hell to control his hormones through sheer force of will. Dean bets he’s losing.

‘What are you talking about?’ Sam picks up the bill, glances at it, and his eyebrows shoot up. ‘Since when do you give me twenties?’

‘Look, Cas...isn’t feelin’ too great. I just--’

‘What happened? Did he get spelled? What did she use? I can--’ Sam is on his feet and digging in his backpack for his laptop before Dean can even finish.

‘No, no, it’s -- nothin’ like that, I swear. He just...I just want to save him some embarrassment, okay?’ Dean knows his voice is cracking and he can see curiosity, suspicion, and worry in Sam’s expression, so he takes a deep breath and tries again, consciously lowering and steadying his voice. ‘He’ll be fine, I promise. He’s a little...out of it right now is all. He just needs it to be quiet for awhile. He’ll be fine in the morning.’ _I fucking hope._

‘Okay,’ Sam says slowly, glancing at the clock and letting his laptop slide back into his bag. ‘So you...want me to go see a movie that lasts from now until ... morning. Which is eight hours from now.’

Dean digs out another bill. ‘See a couple.’

  


‘Okay, you’re clear.’ Dean waves to Castiel and steps back inside the room. He’s done his best in ten minutes to make things quiet and dim and as unsexy as possible. There’s not a lot he can do, really, since even the chairs are riveted in place -- the clientele must be more theft-prone than normal. Poking through the cabinet under the television he unearthed a ratty checkers set. It had most of the pieces and he could make up the difference with quarters. It’s on his neatly made bed now looking seriously sad.

Castiel pauses at the doorway, hands still in his pockets. He’s standing straight now, but his expression is closed and he isn’t meeting Dean’s eyes. ‘I should go elsewhere. This is--’

‘Hell, no.’ Dean lunges forward and grabs Castiel’s elbow before he can vanish but also before he can think. At Castiel’s hiss of breath he lets go as though the coat was suddenly red-hot. ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m -- fuck it, will you just get the hell _in_ here?’

He feels marginally better when he closes the door behind Castiel and locks it. Sam’s got his key, so that’s one problem solved. Or delayed. Dean doesn’t really care which at the minute because he’s a tiny bit preoccupied with the miserable-looking man in front of him.

He had hoped that a plan might just drop into his hands while he yanked the room together and waited impatiently for Sam to get his ass out the door. But clearly Santa doesn’t like him much this year ‘cause he can’t think of a fucking _thing_ to do.

It had seemed clear enough standing on the street. 

Problem, solution. A, B. Step one, step two.

Step one had clearly been to get Castiel somewhere quiet, somewhere private, somewhere _off_ a sidewalk so at least he wasn’t humiliating himself in public.

And now -- now, step two doesn’t seem so obvious any more. 

It had seemed really simple standing out on the street: get Cas back to the motel and...well, have the ultimate guy-bonding moment. 

Or something. 

Now -- now, Cas is just standing there looking hunched and hunted and bonding of any kind seems quite definitely out of the question.

‘Uh...’ Well, _that’s_ a brilliant fucking start.

Castiel looks up at him, his back to the door. ‘I should leave.’

‘No.’ That comes out firm enough, like he actually knows what he’s doing. ‘Look -- look, why’d you even do this, Cas? Sam and I could’ve gone and...given her the heavy word or...kicked over the cookie shelves or something.’

Dean isn’t sure in the bad light from the bulb by the door, half-hidden in a heavy frosted shade, but it sure as hell _looks_ like Castiel’s starting to blush.

‘I was...curious.’

‘Curious about what, exactly? If you want cookies, Bobby’s a hell of a baker!’

Castiel shakes his head, fixing his eyes on something on the wall past Dean’s shoulder. ‘I know what cookies taste like.’

‘So why get yourself into this.’ _And could you maybe talk through that bit about where I come into this again? ‘Cause I’m startin’ to think I got the wrong idea._ After all, how fucking likely was it that Cas had engineered this whole thing to try and get his hands on Dean’s dick? The thought sends a totally unexpected spike of heat through Dean’s belly and he shifts, suddenly uncomfortable.

Castiel hunches his shoulders, grimacing down at the carpet and muttering something.

‘What?’

‘I wanted to know what it felt like,’ Castiel repeats each word clearly and slowly as if Dean had become hard of hearing.

‘What _what_ felt like? A sugar high?’ Dean deliberately turns away, sitting down on the end of his bed and starting to unlace his boots. He focuses on each hook and eye as if they constitute an entirely new task for him, something he has to think about very carefully. It helps -- a little bit -- to ease back the ache in his gut, the dryness in his mouth. 

It _doesn’t_ help him ignore the pulse between his legs and the slight discomfort in his boxers. He’s not hard -- not really -- but he’s sure heading in that direction.

He’s _never_ thought about Castiel like that -- never thought about another _guy_ like that and now is not the fucking time to start. Mid-life crises are overrated; they’re not a luxury hunters get to have and he’s damn well not going to be the first.

He’s not that old anyway.

‘Do you remember that bar a month ago?’

‘Which bar, Cas? There are lots.’ One boot down, one to go. He carefully tucks the laces inside the empty boot and pushes it under the edge of the bed so he won’t trip on it later.

‘The one in Texas with that woman -- the one behind the bar.’

Oh, yeah, he remembered her. She had eyes like Jo and a quiet laugh. She’d kept his glass filled and kissed like she had all the time in the world. ‘Yeah.’

‘I...thought about her. After we left that town.’ Castiel sounds awkward. And, okay, yeah, he almost always sounds awkward, but this sounds... _different_ and awkward. Not like he’s holding out information or trying to get Dean to make some logical leap on his own but more like he’s feeling his way in the dark. Trying to get from word to word without knowing where he’s going to end up.

Dean tucks the laces inside his second boot, pushes it next to the first, and leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, letting his hands hang. ‘Okay.’

‘You...’ Castiel raises his hands slightly, holding them open, flat, palms-up, as if supporting an invisible book. ‘I saw you kiss her.’

Dean waits, but nothing else follows. ‘Okay.’ That had been all there was, really; she was tired and he was half-drunk and Sammy was waiting with the car.

‘And... I thought I would like to do that, too.’

Dean frowns. ‘Kiss her.’ That’s -- slightly disappointing if Dean’s being honest with himself. He shifts on the bed, easing his hips from side to side in an effort to conceal his crotch from Castiel. Luckily for him, Cas doesn’t seem to be paying much attention.

Castiel shakes his head slowly. ‘No.’

‘I don’t--’

‘I had never...thought that before. About you -- about anyone and I thought -- I did not understand what it was.’ Castiel frowns at his palms. ‘And...being near you made me...’ He scowls harder, dark eyebrows drawing together, and looks up at Dean. ‘I...did not understand what happened to me.’

‘You got horny.’ Dean keeps his voice flat with an effort. He doesn’t _feel_ flat -- he feels wound tight and over-sensitive and like he doesn’t know where to look or what to say or where to put his hands. He can feel the heat of his palms against his own thighs and the weight of his cock against his thigh. ‘’S’fine, Cas. It happens. She was hot--’

‘No. It was not _her.’_ Castiel’s frown smoothes away and he sighs, dropping his hands. ‘It took me...a while to realise it was you but -- I am not a fool, Dean. I am just -- not used to...this body.’ He whacks at the folds of the trenchcoat impatiently and Dean wants to laugh. 

Dean swallows hard. ‘So you decided witchcraft was a solid next step?’

Castiel has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I thought it might -- confirm my suspicions.’

‘Hell of a way to go about it.’

Castiel nods. ‘I know. It was...short-sighted of me.’ He shrugs, sighs. ‘It will pass. I will--’ He turns to the door again and Dean is off the bed and across the room before he thinks about it, catching Castiel’s wrist and pulling him back a step.

The folds of the coat swing for a minute and -- forbidden territory being what _it_ is and Dean being who _he_ is -- he just can’t stop himself from glancing down. Just for a minute -- just for a second -- just long enough to see--

Well. Answers _that_ question. And he hopes he’s not as flushed as he suddenly feels he is.

‘Look, Cas, just...don’t -- wander the hell off, okay? We’ll...we’ll figure something out.’ He wonders briefly what would happen if he just open his mouth and let words come out: So, Cas, I’ve been mostly straight most of my life but -- this is kinda workin’ for me... maybe in a big way. I’m a little freaked out but I’m kinda into it. Wanna give it a shot? 

Castiel’s expression solidifies into unreadability. ‘I will not--’

Dean throws up his hands. ‘This is crazy! There’s gotta be _something_ we can do if I can’t get you laid.’

Castiel blushes but his voice is calm when he speaks. ‘If you will not let me leave, I will...stay in there.’ He gestures to the bathroom.

Dean nods dumbly and watches Castiel pull the door shut and lock it.

  


This is when cheap motel cable really sucks.

Dean finds himself leaning towards the bathroom door, craning to hear any sound over the buzz of the football game. More than once, he thinks he hears something and nearly finds himself flipping the TV off in annoyance because it’s making it hard to hear what he’s really listening for.

He sighs, refocuses on the game for the nth time and leans back against the barricade of pillows he’s made himself at the head of the bed. He pops the batteries out of the remote and bounces them from one hand to the other, a kind of mock-juggling that’s really unsatisfying and just makes him wish for a third thing so he slots them back into place.

He fixes his eyes on the television, pushing himself to listen to what the commentators are saying. Who the hell is he doing this for, anyway? It’s not like Cas can see him and it isn’t like Cas doesn’t know what the fuck is going on -- hell, this is all Castiel’s fault _anyway_ \-- if he hadn’t eaten the goddamned cookie -- and if Dean hadn’t let his goddamned imagination run away with him--

When the water turns on in the bathroom, Dean damn near jumps off the bed.

‘You okay, Cas?’

‘Fine.’

Dean grits his teeth and turns back to the game, crossing his legs at the ankle and rubbing his thumbnail over the seam of his jeans. It makes a kind of soothing white noise and between that and the game, he manages to distract himself for a few minutes.

The steady flow of water in the bathroom stops and the sudden silence snaps him awake again. ‘Damn it.’

Channel-flipping isn’t a lot of help either. There’s a horror movie he doesn’t recognize and he sticks with that one, but he can’t focus on it any better than on the game. He stares at the screen for a few minutes, then groans and drops his head in his hands, pulling up his knees so he can take up as little space on the bed as humanly possible, no matter how childish he looks. It’s not like anyone’s there to see.

And so what if Cas got a crush? A little, tiny crush. On him. No big deal. No catastrophe. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just something that happens. To embodied angels. All the-- Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? He has no idea what the hell is going on here and he kinda wants to break the lock on the bathroom door and ask Cas if this is all a really fucking elaborate joke. 

Witches. Witches fucking with his life again. Even if they weren’t, technically, _witching_ to do it.

Nope, now they’re fucking with his friends -- his angel -- no, that sounds weird.

They’re friends. Fine. Good. Decision made. Because friends offer to jerk friends off all the time. And kinda mean it. And are kinda disappointed when they’re turned down. It’s all totally normal. 

He groans again and thumps his forehead against his knees a couple of times. It doesn’t help, just makes him uncomfortably aware of how tight his jeans are across his crotch. _I don’t do guys -- I’ve never done-- I’ve never even fucking checked a guy out._

It’s a lie -- if nothing else, he did it not half an hour ago but it makes him feel a bit better because then this can’t be happening.

Simple.

He probably -- inhaled cookie crumbs or something and this is just a baking side effect.

He stretches his legs out again, yanks a pillow over his lap, and resolutely watches some actor he doesn’t recognize do his best to pretend he’s being gutted with a plastic axe while someone off-camera throws red paint on him.

There’s a thump and a kind of sliding slosh from the bathroom and before he plans to do it, he’s on his feet and at the door. ‘Cas?’

Silence.

‘Cas, c’mon -- I don’t want this to turn into a LifeAlert ad. Just tell me you’re okay and I’ll...go back to sleep.’ He glances back at the bed as he says it and scowls. Like sleep was even a remote _possibility_ \-- hell, he was going to have to spend some quality time in the shower himself at this rate.

Once Cas decided to leave the bathroom.

Once he was done with whatever he was doing in there.

Fuck, it was going to be a long night.

Dean leans his forehead against the door and closes his eyes, flattening a palm by his temple. ‘Cas. C’mon, man. ‘m tired. Are you dead or what?’

There’s another sloshing noise and Dean gives up on subtle and rattles the doorknob. To his surprise, the door swings open -- either Cas hadn’t really locked it or the lock was so piss-poor it barely held.

‘Uh...Cas?’

More sloshing and a kind of wheezing gasp and Castiel sits up in the tub, dark hair slicked down over his forehead with damp.

‘Dean...you are not supposed--’ Castiel’s up to the elbows in steaming water, his skin shining with wet, and Dean can feel himself flushing. _Never done a guy never thought about it never thought about it never--_

Castiel slips against the ceramic of the tub and his shoulders jerk tight, his eyes falling half-shut.

‘Jesus...’ Dean’s mouth has gone dry and he can’t figure out what he should do next.

‘Dean...’ Castiel’s voice is more of a gasp and his lips are red and damp like he’s been biting at them, or maybe sucking at something -- his fingers maybe and Dean’s ears are starting to ring. He grips at the doorjamb trying not to let his imagination wander towards what Castiel would look like licking at his slim, pale fingers, pulling them between his lips, sucking at them until his cheeks hollow--

Castiel’s voice yanks him back to the present moment and he swallows with a click against dryness. ‘Dean, I...I _cannot...’_ With an effort Dean can practically feel, Castiel pulls a dripping hand out of the water, gripping at the edge of the tub. His other hand is flattened against the curve where the tub meets the wall.

Dean licks his lips and takes a step into the room. ‘Can’t what? I’ve never met what you can’t do yet.’

Castiel leans his head back against the moisture-slicked tile and closes his eyes, the tips of his fingers falling back into the water, his elbow balanced on the wide, flat edge of the tub. He doesn’t say anything and Dean takes this as permission to come closer.

The air is thick with humidity but its warm and kind of comfy. He pulls the door mostly shut behind him. Feeling more than a little awkward, he kneels down on the threadbare mat beside the tub. ‘Cas.’

Castiel moves his head slightly but says nothing. Dean can see drops of water running down his throat, over his shoulders and collarbone and he’d swear he never thought of licking another man’s shoulder before but he’s thinking of it now. Castiel’s skin is damp and Dean’s mouth is dry and that seems like a pretty simple solution to him.

‘What can’t you do?’ Dean leans on the edge of the tub and if someone asked him to promise on John’s diary that his hand slipped into the water by accident -- he’s not sure what he’d say.

The water is almost uncomfortably warm and Dean swishes his fingers back and forth until he finds Castiel’s forearm and wrist. He can feel rough hair slicked down with water and the strange boundary where Castiel’s fingers slip into the water and Dean’s follow them down.

‘Cas?’

Castiel’s gone silent and still and Dean would really like to know he’s not alone right now. He slides his thumb around the side of Castiel’s hand, feeling warm smoothness and the edges of Castiel’s nails and then empty water. He shifts position slightly and finds Castiel’s fingertips again, matching them with his own, feeling unfamiliar rough spots.

He realises after an unknowable amount of time has gone by that he hasn’t said anything, lost in the feeling of Castiel’s hand, and Castiel is still silent, still leaning back against the slick tile, eyes still closed. 

Dean clears his throat, pauses with his fingertips on Castiel’s palm, brushing against the curve into his wrist. ‘So...uh...can’t be that bad anymore. Must be wearing off pretty fast.’

He’d swear he didn’t mean to sound disappointed.

It’s impossible to tell if Castiel flushes any _more_ but he takes a deep breath and takes Dean’s hand, pulling him forward until half Dean’s forearm is under water and his fingers find-- _never thought about it never thought---_

_Fuck._

‘Cas...’ Dean’s not sure if he says that aloud or not until he hears his own voice rasp in his ears.

Castiel still doesn’t say anything, just slides a little further down in the water and lets Dean’s fingers discover length, heat, weight, and curve.

Dean bites the inside of his lip so hard he can barely breathe, then makes himself let go and take a deep breath. He holds his hand still for a moment, feeling the water lap around his forearm, the dampness spreading up his sleeve from touching the water, the shake in the muscles of his thighs from keeping still.

Castiel has closed his eyes again, one hand still on Dean’s wrist, his other hand limp and loose in the water, palm upwards.

‘Cas...what...’ Dean licks his lips again, feeling the skin improbably dry despite the moisture beading out of the air on his arms and face. ‘I...I don’t know...’ _never thought about this never thought about this never---_ A wave of anxiety closes his throat and his hand tightens inadvertently.

Castiel groans, pushing his head back against the rim of the tub and the wall and Dean can see the water-slick muscles of his stomach pull tight. Castiel’s free hand flattens against the green-and-white tile of the wall and the steady chant of _never_ in Dean’s head suddenly seems a lot quieter.

Dean takes a deep breath, settles himself a little more comfortably on his shins and tries to lean his weight on his free arm, propping the elbow on the flat edge of the tub. If he stretches forward a little, he can just see the rosy head of Castiel’s cock and his own hand below the surface of the water, slightly distorted by surface tension, but otherwise crystal clear. 

No way to pretend he’s _not_ doing this.

Experimentally, he spreads his fingers, covers the base of Castiel’s cock with the palm of his hand, and presses lightly. Castiel inhales sharply, but otherwise makes no other move and Dean shrugs; okay, so what works for him won’t necessarily work for Cas.

Instead, he strokes his palm up Castiel’s length then back down, smoothing over Castiel’s stomach, feeling the muscles tighten and give under his hand. He’s getting soaked well over the elbow now but taking his shirt off would involve taking his hand out of the bath and he’s really not going to do that.

Castiel’s skin is smooth and warm and soft and so _hot_ Dean can practically feel heat coming off him in waves. Castiel’s breathing is getting rough at the edges and his fingers are clenching against the slick porcelain of the tub as though he could grab it and steady himself with it.

‘Talk to me, Cas...I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ here...’ Dean’s not sure he means to say that aloud as he runs his hand over Castiel’s collarbone, feeling his knuckles come out of the water for the first time. He traces his fingertips over the rise of Castiel’s shoulders, teasing at the space between shoulder bone and tub and caressing the curve of muscle leading down Castiel’s arm.

Castiel moans, shaking his head so hard droplets spatter off the shaggy dark ends. He’s flushed with more than the bathwater now, cheeks bright like he’s been out in a cold wind.

‘What do you want?’ Dean is just talking to fill up space now as he smoothes his hand over Castiel’s ribs, feeling muscle, bone, and the spaces between under his fingers. He can feel the uneven rise and fall of Castiel’s breathing and the light roughness of the scatter of hair over his breastbone. _never -- should’ve -- why didn’t I_ ‘Tell me, Cas, I’ll do it, I...fuck, I’ll do whatever...anything...’

Before Dean can offer anything else -- or humiliate himself any more -- Castiel is moving, pushing himself up out of the bath, grabbing at Dean’s shoulders to steady himself.

‘Uh -- okay -- what --’ Dean catches at Castiel’s calves to keep himself from going over backwards and knocking himself out on the edge of the sink. There’s coarse hair soaked flat under his palms and, before he can say anything, Castiel has dropped down into his lap, hands still on Dean’s shoulders, pressing him back against the cabinet under the sink with the weight of his body. _‘Jesus---’_ Castiel is soaking wet and hot and Dean lets his hands slide around Castiel’s back, pressing his palms just below Cas’ shoulderblades.

Castiel pushes against him and Dean is abruptly aware that when Castiel got out of the bath, his cock came with him. There’s a hard, hot, wet pressure against Dean’s lower belly and Dean’s rutting up against him before he can make a conscious decision one way or the other. Castiel’s fingers tighten on his shoulders and he slips down against Dean’s chest, his knees coming to rest on either side of Dean’s hips. 

‘Cas...Cas, I...’ Dean doens’t know what he’s trying to say: the weight against him is turning off various critical portions of his brain and all he can think is _want want want_ but he doesn’t know _what._ ‘I...don’t, I...’ Castiel shifts against him again and Dean grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. _‘Fuck.’_

‘Dean--’ There are warm, damp fingers under his chin, tilting his head back and Dean keeps his eyes closed because he’s really not sure he can handle looking at anything right now. He waits, almost holds his breath, but nothing happens and he risks cracking open an eye. Castiel is watching him, head tilted slightly on one side. 

There’s a question there and Dean nearly groans aloud at the thought that they’re going to _talk_ now. He can’t take a deep breath, his hands are twitching to slide around on that warm, smooth, wet skin, and his dick’s so hard his boxers feel like they’re made of cardboard. ‘’m okay, Cas.’

‘I do not wish--’

Dean _does_ groan now and lurches forward before Castiel can finish whatever pointless objection he’s about to come up with _this_ time. Whatever Cas might think, Dean’s _not_ an idiot and he knows his own body well enough to know this is something that must’ve been bubbling away for awhile -- maybe since the girl in Texas, maybe before then. Right now, that’s a ‘who knows, who cares’ question and he’s not gonna worry about it.

Whatever Castiel’s about to say next, Dean swallows it, presses his lips over Castiel’s and hopes to God he’s doing it right. For all he knows, guys don’t kiss at all or kiss differently or only kiss on Tuesdays or-- 

But if there are rules and Castiel knows them and Dean’s breaking them, Cas doesn’t seem to care either.

His fingers are in Dean’s hair, pressing against the base of Dean’s skull, and he’s making small, hungry sounds into Dean’s mouth, and his hips seem to have a mind all their own. 

‘Dean, I--’ Castiel barely moves back just barely far enough to speak; Dean can still feel his lips moving against his own mouth. He can also feel Castiel’s hands over the front of his shirt, a light brush against the cotton but enough to point out that that the shirt could not be there. 

‘Just -- just -- wait a minute -- I --’ Dean pulls back and tries to dig himself out of his shirt without moving Castiel off his thighs. ‘--fuck--’ He finally drags the shirt off his head just in time for Castiel to flick open the fastening on his jeans and without further preamble slide his hand straight into Dean’s boxers. ‘Jesus _fuck--’_

Dean arches straight back, thumping his head painfully against the underside of the sink but it’s really impossible to care too much with Castiel’s fingers exploring the underside of his dick and finding _that spot_ right under the head that practically makes him see stars. _‘Christ--’_ Without opening his eyes, Dean fumbles out and finds Castiel’s arm, then his shoulder, then his neck and drags him forward, biting at Castiel’s lower lip, sucking on his tongue, ignoring the occasional clash of teeth because who doesn’t get the angle wrong once in awhile?

Castiel is pushing up against him, a hard, wet length and Dean lets his free hand find its own way down over Castiel’s ribs, his hip, to the newly familiar curve between their bellies. He can feel the back of Castiel’s hand in a loose grip around his own cock and the sudden rush of feeling -- warmth, affection, trust, lust -- makes him lightheaded. He drops his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder and just breathes for a minute, taking in the scent of earth and spice that always hangs around Cas.

Without speaking, Castiel shifts slightly, moving back on one knee and, before Dean can complain, sliding their hands together, gripping palm to palm for a minute. Then, still without saying anything, Castiel shifts forward, pushing their cocks together -- a bright burst of sensation through Dean’s abdomen that nearly has him coming on the spot -- and wrapping their tangled fingers around them. 

_‘Cas--’_ Dean chokes on whatever else he had been about to say and jolts upwards into their joined grip. The solid, silken slide of Castiel against him is nearly enough to undo him. There’s wetness and heat between them and he really, seriously hopes there’s a round two to this that involves a bed.

He still has a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and Dean drags him forward, licking over Castiel’s mouth, down the corner of his chin, over his throat, _anything_ to hear the small, throaty pants and feel Castiel jerk up into his hand. A bite just below the ear gets him a wholehearted groan and he grins against Castiel’s throat and licks the spot he just reddened.

Castiel’s free hand is in his hair, fingertips sliding over his scalp, pressing at the base of his skull and behind his ears and around the curve of his throat until Dean wants to lean down and bite the long, clever fingers, suck them into his mouth and-- Then Castiel tightens his fingers, pulls, slides, slips his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and that’s it. 

Dean comes with a shout and, in the sense that he’s just shot his brain out through his dick, barely registers that Castiel stiffens against him and there’s a sudden warm pulse over the back of his hand. 

It’s not nearly as weird as he thought it would be, though -- assuming he _had_ ever thought about this which even now he’s not entirely prepared to admit. It feels kinda nice to have Cas slump against him, warm and heavy against him, breathing harsh in his ear and it’s not like sex is ever really a bad smell. The bathroom is humid and every breath he takes smells of them -- his sweat and Castiel’s, their come mingled over their hands.

Much as he’s growing to like the feeling of Cas pressed post-orgasmic against him, though, his knees are starting to ache and if they don’t do a little bit of cleaning up now things are going to be seriously sticky later.

‘Cas -- hey.’ He nudges Castiel with one shoulder and starts when Castiel is suddenly on his feet, afterglow apparently entirely behind him. ‘Uh -- okay -- I--’

‘I am...I am sorry, Dean, I--’

‘Oh, Jesus, _no._ No, don’t you _fucking_ dare!’ Dean’s on his feet, too, hurriedly tucking himself back together and zipping up his jeans because he’s not about to have this discussion with his dick hanging out. 

‘But I--’

 _‘No.’_ Dean jabs a finger against Castiel’s collarbone and immediately has to resist the urge to kiss the spot better when Cas winces. 

‘But you--’

‘Still no! Did it look like I didn’t _want_ to do that! Don’t you fucking dare tell me that was -- that was cookies or -- or -- or stress or witches or some other shit because y’know what? I might be stupid but even _I’m_ not _that_ fucking stupid!’

Castiel stares at him for a long, silent minute, then reaches out and traces a finger through the still-warm mess on Dean’s stomach, leaving a clean line on his skin. Dean shudders slightly, then swallows hard. ‘Because that wasn’t cookies, was it, Cas?’

Castiel shakes his head slowly, eyes focused on his hand on Dean’s abdomen. 

‘Tell me what that was, Cas.’

Castiel glances up, a quick flick of dark eyes, and bites the corner of his lip for a minute. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost too low to hear. ‘That was you. And me.’

A knot in the middle of Dean’s chest eases; his back feels loose and like he can take a deep breath again. He grins at Castiel, feeling unexpectedly almost drunkenly happy. ‘Good.’ He reaches out and catches Castiel’s hand, tugging him forward. ‘So we clean up, then we find a bed. ‘Cause I am too old for the goddamned bathroom floor.’

  


‘So, I got coffee -- is Cas--’ Sam stops in the doorway, a cardboard tray of coffee cups in one hand, a grease-stained brown paper bag in the other. 

Castiel lifts his head from the pillow beside Dean and gestures Sam to be silent. Dean mumbles something into his elbow and sleeps on.

‘Well. I guess you’re all right, then,’ Sam says, blinking. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting this on some level; he just hadn’t been expecting to walk in on it this morning. 

Castiel smiles at him and Sam can’t help but notice the protective curl of Castiel’s arm around his brother’s shoulders, see where their fingers are locked together on the dingy blanket.

‘Y’got somethin’ to say, Sammy, say it,’ Dean says flatly without opening his eyes.

Sam blinks again and, in his moment of hesitation, sees Castiel’s smile fade, Dean’s shoulders tense. He clears his throat, shifts his weight slightly. 

‘You want sugar in your coffee?’ and just barely ducks in time to avoid the pillow Dean slings at him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is an homage to the marvellous show _Farscape_ and the episode "Crackers Don't Matter."
> 
> Also, all glory to [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane) and [tiptoe39](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39) for their patient beta'ing commentary.


End file.
